Trying to do it right
by mellarkymia
Summary: Peeta Mellark is the prom king. And in an odd way, it's comforting. Because the universal truths I've come to know about our small town, and our small school, and our small way of life, have so often been proven false. But I've known it would be him standing on that stage since I was five year's old. I guess some things never change.


Peeta Mellark is the prom king.

And in an odd way, it's comforting. Because the universal truths I've come to know about our small town, and our small school, and our small way of life, have so often been proven false.

But I've known it would be him standing on that stage since I was five year's old. I guess some things never change.

I pretend not to watch as he climbs the small set of stairs to the stage at the other end of the gymnasium. I stir the punch idly with the oversized ladle while he patiently accepts the gaudy crown. It's gold, of course, and seems to glow under the spinning disco ball and the glittering Christmas lights that the prom committee strung up earlier today.

I don't even turn my head toward the stage when he gives his quick, gracious thank you speech. He calls out his older brothers - makes a funny, self-deprecating comment about how relieved he is to have carried on the family's tradition. He gives a shout-out to Mr. A, his wrestling coach and mentor. To his best friend, Finnick, who's hooting and hollering and fist-pumping from his place on the gymnasium floor.

"This is so dumb," Madge whispers to me, rolling her eyes as she glares at Finnick. "Why did we even come?"

I pretend to agree, as I smooth down the deep purple silk of my thrift store gown.

Why did I even come?

Prom is for the kids that cared. The kids that went to football games, and dressed up in stupid theme outfits for spirit week. It's for the kids that had time to be high school students. Not the ones who spent most of their mornings and evenings looking after their sister while Mom pulled overtime shifts at the nursing home.

It's for the kids who want to celebrate the past four years. For the kids who are looking forward to the future.

"GO REBELS!"

That's how Peeta ends his speech. And all 90 kids on the floor - even some of the faculty chaperones - echo the battle cry back.

I catch one last look at his smile - crooked, and pure, and alight with genuine happiness - before he jumps off the stage.

And when I feel the way my heart skips at his expression, I decide I won't be paying any more attention to Peeta Mellark tonight.

Even if he is the reason I came.

I'm about to tell Madge that I'm ready to bail, to try to sneak into the Hob for the beers Greasy Sae promised us if we showed up in our prom dresses. But when I turn my attention to her, I see that she's found the reason she came, too.

Gale Hawthorne. Dressed in a second-hand suit, the sleeves just a little too long. But he's slicked his dark hair back, and he's looking at her like she's a prize he just won. Her hand delicate clasps his wrist as they greet each other.

They deserve to have a normal night. And maybe they won't get it. Maybe all her old friends - the ones wearing different shades of the same tight-fitting dress - will still whisper about her, the country club girl that inexplicably left the cheerleading team sophomore year to go hang out with the trailer park cousins. They'll pass the rumors about her promiscuous ways back and forth with the flask Glimmer hid in her purse, all the while eyeing Gale like he's some kind of delicious treat for them to devour.

But I know, from the way their eyes haven't left one another, from the way they've drawn closer to each other, that they won't see or hear any of that tonight.

So I turn away from the punch bowl, and the dance floor, and my only two friends. I make my way out of the gym, out into the dark hallways of Panem High.

The Top 40 hits sound strange, tinny and far away, once I've made it to my locker. Like they're coming from another life.

Maybe in a way they are. The life I would I have led, maybe, if Dad hadn't dropped dead at work when I was 12. If Mom hadn't started drinking to deal with his loss. If we hadn't lost the house - the nice one, in the neighborhood that Madge, and Finnick, and Glimmer, and Peeta all still reside in.

That life would have meant AP classes, and after school sports practice. Dates and stupid, pointless drama that felt life-altering when it was nothing more than a momentary blip on the way to adulthood.

Not two part-time jobs and weeks without breakfast, and constant stress and worry over what will become of Prim, my little sister who deserved so much more than this.

A part of me - the one I'd never tell Madge or Gale about - longs for that life. Aches for its loss. Wishes for that simplicity. Wonders if I'd have been on Peeta's arm tonight, like he promised, if the odds had been more in my family's favor.

That Lorde song starts playing. The one about being on the fringe. And I let myself laugh bitterly at the idea of Glimmer and her friends dancing and singing along.

"Katniss?"

Even though I haven't heard him say my name in six years, I know without question who's standing behind me before I turn to see him.

He's bigger now than he was when he used to sit next to me on the swing set. Hours of wrestling practice worked wonders on my once-scrawny former next door neighbor.

The tux fits him perfectly. And though his shoes are shined, and his bow tie and boutonniere are perfectly in place, his wavy blonde hair still looks just a little bit unkempt.

In that way, he looks just like the kid I used to know. The one who told me, when we were five, after we built a castle out of mud and leaves, that someday he'd make me his queen.

A silly promise. And so many of the promises that have been made to me have been broken. So why is that the only one I've always remembered.

"Hey, Peeta," I say, like I never stopped returning his phone calls or meeting his eye in the hall.

"Hey," he replies, his deep blue eyes as kind and warm as ever, like he understands why I did.

I mean it when I congratulate him. And I can't help but laugh when he rolls his eyes and grasps for the crown on his head.

"This thing is heavy," he says with a shrug. "It's stupid."

I shake my head. "It's cool."

He laughs good-naturedly. "Well, that's tremendous praise coming from you."

It feels a little like a dream; that after spending a third of my life actively avoiding him, we're talking so easily. I used to avoid him like the plague - first, unable to talk to him now that I was on such a lower level; then, ashamed at how I'd pushed him away after my father's death.

But now, I find myself moving closer to him.

"I can't believe you came tonight," he says, shoving his hands in his pockets. He looks nervous, all of a sudden.

I offer a sort of half-smile, not entirely sure how to respond. "Well, you know. Madge wanted to."

He looks at me like he doesn't believe me. And I don't blame him.

But I can't explain why, when I saw his name on the Prom King ballot, I knew Ihad to see him win.

Other than the fact that I sometimes still dream about that little kid - the one I loved unabashedly - grinning as he smeared dirt on his face, and declaring himself King of 12th Street.

And I wanted to see that grin again.

"You look beautiful," he says, then. And if it's possible, we both blush at the same time.

"You do, too," I find myself saying, not even caring how corny it sounds.

Something about the way he's looking at me - the way he can't stop - makes my breathing speed up. And I have to ask.

"Where's your date?"

He lets out a low laugh, then. "Delly? We're just friends. I think she's making out with Thom in the boy's bathroom right now."

"Why didn't she come with Thom, then?" I ask.

"Because she knew that the prom king needs a date. But there was only one person I wanted to ask - and that wasn't gonna happen."

"Why not?"

It's his turn to step closer to me. And I can smell his cologne - spring-like, clean, and adult.

"Because she hasn't talked to me in six years," he says, simply.

I want to tell him everything. About what the first night in the trailer home felt like; how hard it was to sleep amidst the smell of mildew and the loud parties outside, how terrifying it's been, how proud I am of my mom for staying sober, how sorry I am about his parents' divorce, how big Prim is getting.

But instead, I just say, "I'm sorry."

That Lumineers song starts playing. The one about people who belong together. It echoes down the hallway, where we're still standing alone.

Peeta holds his hand out to me, palm open in invitation.

"Do you want to dance?"

I do. We do. Swaying slowly, barely moving in each other's arms.

And when the song ends, I know I won't be the first to let go.


End file.
